


hold tight to your loved ones and remember this

by janie_tangerine



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x03 spoilers, Comfort, Episode Tag, F/M, I Blame Tumblr, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Idiots in Love, Post-Battle, Post-Canon, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 18:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: His eyes are so very green as they stare into hers, maybe a bit wider than usual, maybe with the same stare he leveled at her when he knighted her, his lips slightly parted, his breath coming in faster. She finds his pulse with one of her thumbs, noticing that it suddenly became faster and it’s still becoming faster, as if the longer she rubs her rough fingers over the red welts left by the straps and all of that scar tissue the faster his heart sends blood flowing though him, and it’s good, it’s good because it means he’s alive and here and like hell he’s not the fighter he used to be.





	hold tight to your loved ones and remember this

**Author's Note:**

> SOOOO this isn't what I was planning to post next but twinvalyrianswords on tumblr posted _I am 100% picturing an after battle scene between jaime and brienne in which they sit side by side quietly, profondly exhausted and in shock of the battle they have been through. And they have simple tender and comforting gestures toward each other. Something quiet and sweet with them slowly letting the fact that the other and themself are still alive sink in. Taking care of each other_ and I REALLY LOVED IT and I got authorized to fic it, so... have some random post-8x03 1k and wait a couple days for the.... less PG13 rated post-8x03 ;) ;)
> 
> As usual, nothing is mine and the title is always from *that* Springsteen song that I'll re-use for them until my fingers fall off bECAUSE IT'S THEM I didn't make the rules. ;)

She’s been sitting on the Great Hall’s hard floor for — she doesn’t know how long. She came out of the ramparts, she made sure the people in the crypts were safe, she saw to Lady Sansa and she saw to Pod and now she knows she should see to herself, but she’s just — too tired. She’s covered in dirt and blood and undead bits and she really should bathe, but the mere idea of standing up is _too much_.

Maybe in a bit.

Maybe.

She closes her eyes, trying to get the smell of death away from her thoughts even if it seems burned into her nostrils and her mouth and on her tongue —

And then someone drops sitting next to her with a loud clang of armor hitting stone.

She opens her eyes.

It’s Jaime, his back against the wall, his face equally covered in blood, dirt and undead bits and with a slight smile on his face, but it’s a lot shakier than she ever remembers him smirking.

“Ser,” he croaks, his voice sounding so hoarse she can barely hear it.

“Ser,” she echoes, her mouth curling upwards tiredly even if she hasn’t given it permission. He says nothing else, his green eyes glinting in the torches’s light, and he sat down on her left side so his right arm lies in between them, unmoving. For a moment she thinks he might be hurt, but if he’s as tired as she is, maybe it’s just too heavy to move. And —

She breathes in, reaching out, her fingers gently touching his wrist. She can feel his pulse through the cloth covering it, lightly, and suddenly she needs to feel _more_ , and maybe that hand is uncomfortable. She moves her hand towards the straps holding it to his wrist but does nothing until he breathes and nods at her, still saying nothing. She swallows and unstraps it, putting it away gently, revealing red scarred skin underneath — gods, in between the cold and the effort it must take to lift it for how heavy it is, of course it looks bad. It also _feels_ cold, and so she moves a bit closer, taking his stump in between both of her hands, rubbing her palms against it until his skin warms again, staring down at it until it’s not ice cold, and then she looks back up at him.

Oh.

His eyes are so very green as they stare into hers, maybe a bit wider than usual, maybe with the same stare he leveled at her when he knighted her, his lips slightly parted, his breath coming in faster. She finds his pulse with one of her thumbs, noticing that it suddenly became faster and it’s _still_ becoming faster, as if the longer she rubs her rough fingers over the red welts left by the straps and all of that scar tissue the faster his heart sends blood flowing though him, and it’s good, it’s _good_ because it means he’s alive and _here_ and like _hell_ he’s not the fighter he used to be.

She doesn’t know what gets into her as she raises it up and brings it to her lips, once, but she wants to feel that pulse with her mouth, and suddenly nothing that ever mattered before when it came to this kind of intimacy does because she’s too tired to worry about her perceived faults and he's not telling her no and he knighted her and they survived and _he knighted her_ and they _survived_ and she never dared dream to fight _with him_ but she had and gods she could have died happy after the rush that went through her spine as their blades danced together and their backs met.

What she knows is that he makes a noise at the back of his throat that sounds almost needy, and then he says her name again as he moves closer and his forehead falls against hers — she keeps on holding the stump in between both hands, lowering it but not letting it go, as his left hand goes to her cheek, cradling it, wiping blood and gore from it with his fingers, and they’re shaking but they’re also getting warm as they touch her skin, too —

“Never,” she blurts, “say you’re not _the fighter you used to be_ again. Do you hear me?”

“I’m not,” he replies, sounding as tired as she feels.

“Jaime, we — we lived. You saved me, same as I did you, and you fought them as bravely as anyone else might have, and you’re _here_ and you did it regardless, right hand or not. I won’t accept that kind of talking anymore, all right?”

“Very well, _ser_ ,” he says, his mouth cracking another tired grin.

“Don’t make me _command_ you,” she smiles back, wondering, _is this how it feels to joke back and forth with someone and why hasn’t it ever happened before_? “Because I would.”

His eyebrows rise. Still tiredly. “Then why don’t you?”

Gods, she’s so glad he actually has it in him to do _this_ , she could burst with it.

“ _Ser Jaime_ , don’t ever let me hear again from you that you couldn’t be of use with a sword as long as I live, then.”

“I can do that,” he smiles, and then he moves closer, his head falling against her neck, and she lets his wrist go so that she can hold him closer and gods she needed it, she _needed_ it —

 _Then_ it finally crashes down on her. She made it. _He_ made it, and he’s breathing against her shoulder while his left hand is grasping at her neck and his hair is dirty with blood under her fingers but it still feels as silky as the finest clothes she ever wore, and they both did also because they covered for each other and if only she hadn’t thought they would die —

“If I may say,” she whispers, trying to find the right words, but then she just says it the way it tumbles off her tongue, “I much prefer fighting with you than fighting _you_ , even if… I suppose we might have found out in less dire circumstances.”

He laughs against her neck, and when he moves back his head she thinks she’s never seen him do it so freely if not maybe when he pulled that chair for her before the battle, _maybe_ , and he doesn’t look haunted as he does now, not at all —

“I didn’t have the courage to tell you in the yard before,” he croaks, “but to be entirely truthful, one of the reasons I came here was that I couldn’t take the idea of fighting you at all.”

His forehead falls back against hers once more, and she grasps at him harder, nodding.

“Which means,” he goes on, “that this is the time where I ask you if there’s half a chance you might fight _with_ me again or if it was just this one time.”

She can feel that he’s smiling, and gods but she wants to move forward and kiss that curve of his lips, but maybe in a moment. Because now she owes him an answer, and it’s the easiest that has ever left her own tongue in a very, very long time.

“I would.”

 

End.


End file.
